


Kept

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Chair Sex, Cunnilingus, F/F, Faustian Bargain, Fem!John - Freeform, Femlock, Flashbacks, Frottage, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, Public Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-02-04 09:46:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18602023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Sherlockismarried to her work, but when John comes along, she thinks of taking a mistress.Femlock Faust AU. Alt First Meeting.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!

_Sherlock woke to a familiar scent with an unfamiliar pungency._

_Blood._

_But this much blood?_

_Sherlock sniffed._

_Abattoir._

_Alarm registered, sharp and painful._

_“John?”_

_Sherlock reached a hand out._

_An arm. A breast._

_Both cold. Far too cold._

_“John?!”_

_A tiny splash._

_Sherlock’s fingertips had wandered into a puddle, a sticky puddle._

_“Oh, God.”_

_But Sherlock knew, even as she spoke the words, that God would not help her. Not anymore._

_Just then, a door burst open, and a swarm of bright torch lights blinded Sherlock._

_A moment of pure confusion and panic passed, then Sherlock’s eyes adjusted. Her ears attuned to the Gallic patter. They were telling of her of her rights._

_Sherlock’s gaze followed the path of their torch lights._

_Beside her. On the bed._

_John._

_“JOHN!”_

_Glassy-eyed. Mouth open. Hideous._

_Like a fish on a market slab._

_Like a fish floating on the top of a pond._

_A pond of blood._

_Too much blood, really. Macbeth amounts of blood. No one had that much blood in them._

_Sherlock looked up._

_From behind the row of scowling, mustached gendarme. there emerged a familiar face contorted in an unfamiliar mask of horror._

_Lestrade._

_“Sherlock, what in the bloody hell have you done?”_

_Sherlock opened her mouth to protest, to tell them she would solve this one just like all the rest, but she never got the chance to say anything._

_Dreams were like that._

* * *

Sherlock woke to an unfamiliar smell with an unfamiliar pungency.

Sex. Lots of sex.

An obscene amount of sex. Really, someone should open a window.

“John?”

Sherlock reached a hand out.

An arm. A breast.

Warm.

Both wonderfully, wonderfully, mercifully warm.

Sherlock’s fingers brushed, then rested upon the undulations of a ribcage. She registered an even rise and fall and was reassured.

“Mm?” grunted John.

Sherlock withdrew her hand as John rolled towards her.

“Bad dream,” whispered Sherlock, surprised at her own truthfulness.

“Mm. That’s what comes of eating snails!” John gave a sleepy, snorty giggle.

Sherlock smiled and pressed her lips to John’s hair.

John sighed a beautiful, contented sigh.

“ _Sherlock_.”

Tears welled up in Sherlock’s eyes.

Don’t hurt her. Do what you want with me, but please, don’t hurt my Watson.

Sherlock sniffed and blinked and glanced at her mobile and did a bit of simple arithmetic.

Seventeen hours and change.

She and John would be back in London by then. She wouldn’t take John on the next one just, well, just in case. Dreams were only dreams, but it was much safer to deal with the Devil you knew than the one you didn’t.

John curled an arm around Sherlock’s neck and snuggled close.

Once more, Sherlock memorised the sensation of John’s nude form pressed to hers and tucked the memory away for safe-keeping.

John cleared her throat and when she spoke it was with just a trace of sleep in her voice.

“Christ, if you’d told me two months ago that one day I would be refusing snails and getting myself shagged beyond belief in Paris with the world’s only gorgeous consulting detective, I’d have said you were barking. It’s like a dream.”

Sherlock, whose standard for incredulity was now much lower than it had once been, was forced to agree, though she didn’t say so aloud. What she did say was:

“There are more things in heaven and earth, my dear John.”

Sherlock accept John’s kisses and amended the quotation silently to herself.

There were certainly more things in heaven and earth _and hell_ than were, once upon a time, dreamt of in Sherlock’s philosophy.

But not now. Not anymore.

* * *

**_Six weeks earlier…_ **

Sherlock paced, pausing every about-face to glance at the hourglass on the mantelpiece beside the skull.

A few grains of red sand remained in the top bulb.

Any minute now a case would arrive.

Any minute.

But Sherlock needed one _now_.

Three days’ rest had been a compromise, but it was far too long. Sherlock was beyond restless. Her gaze wandered to the floorboard and the Moroccan case which lay below it and the chemical distraction which laid within.

Then she heard the front door.

Yes!

She waited, blood pounding in her ears, and listened.

Not Lestrade.

Her heart sank.

No!

But, perhaps, client?

Mrs. Hudson. Stamford. Someone else.

But they weren’t taking the stairs.

Oh, for goodness’ sake, the cases were supposed to come to Sherlock! She wasn’t supposed to chase them! That wasn’t the deal!

Sherlock flew down the stairs and thrust herself into the trio that was gathered around the threshold of 221C.

“Do you have a problem?” she blurted at the stranger.

“Hello, dear,” said Mrs. Hudson placidly.

“Sherlock,” said Stamford. “This is Watson. She and I were at Barts together.”

“Well, do you?” persisted Sherlock, still boring into the stranger with her eyes. “Maybe,” Sherlock took in the haircut, the posture, the stance, the cane, “no, that’s no mystery. Military. Injury that you forget about. Psychosomatic. Trauma. Wounded in action. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan,” replied the stranger, a short, solid-looking blonde with a snub nose and a wry smile. “I, uh, do have a problem, though.”

“Finally!” huffed Sherlock, throwing her hands up dramatically. “What is it?”

“I need cheap digs.”

Sherlock snorted. “That’s not a case! I’m a detective, not an estate agent!”

“John’s here to look at the flat, Sherlock,” explained Stamford. She waved toward the interior of 221C.

“Oh, really? Like the damp, do you?” said Sherlock with a cold snort.

“Sherlock!” admonished Mrs. Hudson.

Just then, the front door open.

“Sherlock. I need you.”

Sherlock spun ‘round.

“You’re late, Lestrade!” cried she with a snarl. “What’s new? What’s happened?”

“This one left a note.”

Sherlock jumped straight into the air. “Yes!”

“Detective Inspector,” said Mrs. Hudson.

“Lestrade,” said Stamford.

There were nods all around.

“Will you come, Sherlock?” asked Lestrade.

“Where?”

“Brixton. Lauriston Gardens.”

Sherlock nodded. “But not in a police car.”

In the time it took Sherlock to run upstairs and don her coat and scarf, she made her decision.

A doctor, a military doctor, might be very helpful, indeed. Irregular, but surely not, Sherlock thought as she glanced at the hourglass, its top bulb now completely spent of grains, against the rules.

* * *

“PINK!”

Sherlock was looking up. John was looking down. A length of spiral staircase curled between them.

“Well, come on,” said Sherlock impatiently. “I’m not going to leave you behind.” Not with the way that John looked at Sherlock when she said words like ‘extraordinary’ and ‘amazing’ and ‘fantastic.’ The way John made her way down the stairs, however, gave Sherlock pause.

“I want you,” said Sherlock when they were out of earshot of the crime scene, “to meet me at this address.” Sherlock’s thumb tapped the keys of her mobile. Then John’s mobile beeped. “The pink lady’s case is going to be pink, too. That type of woman matches her shoes with her coat. The killer’s got to get rid of it, too conspicuous. I’m going to check every possible skip in the area until I find it, then take it back to Baker Street. After that, I’ll meet you at the address I just send you. I’m texting Angelo, the owner of the restaurant. You’ll get a free meal out of it, at any rate. Take your time. Look out for anything unusual.”

John’s lips twisted. “I suppose I would just slow you down in the hunt for the pink case.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock frankly, “for now, but it won’t be forever, I think.”

Sherlock had already begun to formulate a hypothesis about John’s injuries. She was certain the right circumstances for testing it would come about, perhaps as soon as tonight.

“The free meal’s worth it,” said John.

“That’s the spirit.”

* * *

“I’m married to my work, John.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

Doubtful, thought Sherlock, very doubtful.

Sherlock had discovered, to her own surprise, that she liked watching John eat, and she was sorry she’d missed most of the meal. She already knew she liked John’s rapt expression when she explained her deductions. The bit with John’s mobile—after Sherlock had borrowed said mobile to text a murderer—had elicited an especially gratifying reaction. There was a case to solve, of course, but when it was over, well…

“There! Let’s go, John!”

* * *

They were laughing, but the penny had dropped yet. John didn’t yet realise that she didn’t have her cane. But they were still laughing together, side by side, even, at the foolishness of their chase.

Sherlock had the sudden urge to turn towards John and press her lips to…

Mrs. Hudson’s door opened.

“Oh, Sherlock, the police were here!”

“Did they go upstairs?” Sherlock asked sharply.

“No, they didn’t have a warrant. They were going back to get one, though.”

“Dammit!”

“Sherlock?” asked John.

There was a knock at the front door.

Sherlock looked at John and waved a hand at the door. “It’s for you,” she said distractedly.

John raised an eyebrow but went to the door.

“Sherlock,” said Mrs. Hudson, “what have you gotten yourself into now?”

“It’s just a case, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock turned back towards the door, to where John was holding her cane and grinning.

“Oh, Doctor Watson!” exclaimed Mrs. Hudson.

“I know! I can’t believe it!”

But no sooner had John closed the door and walked towards them then there was yet another knock.

The three exchanged glances.

“The police?” asked Mrs. Hudson anxiously.

“They usually announce themselves, but don’t worry. I’ll handle it,” said Sherlock. She strode toward the door and looked through the hole. “It’s a cab.”

A cab!

And a cabbie!

Of course!

* * *

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”

Striding away from the crime scene with John by her side, Sherlock quickly became lost in her own thoughts.

She could hardly believe a creature like John Watson existed and unless she was very much mistaken, the incredulity was mutual.

The question now was how to keep John in her life. Would it even be allowed?

“Is it always like this?”

Sherlock glanced at John. “This?”

“After a case, I mean. Adrenaline, I suppose. Endorphins. Feelings of intoxication, invincibility.”

Sherlock smiled. “John Watson, are you _high_?”

John laughed. “That about sums it up, yeah.”

“Yes, it’s always like this. It's a high, and there’s no better one. Trust me, I’ve tried them all.”

“Sherlock, you were so…”

“And you, too, were…”

Sherlock had been cataloguing her own physical response: increased heart rate, increased respiratory rate, rise in basal temperature, but she choked when she reached her conclusion.

She wasn’t just high on a case. She was _aroused_. Physically, that is, sexually, aroused.

This was new. This was John.

But what on earth should Sherlock do about it?

Ignore it, of course. It would go away.

Or…

“Chinese? There’s a place at the end of Baker Street that’s open ‘til two.”

“Sounds good. Though I’m almost—almost, mind you—too keyed up to eat.”

“Hmm. You know, if you fancy,” Sherlock looked overhead for CCTV cameras and then at the streets in front of them and determined the most secluded spot, “we could always take the edge off before we get there.”

“Take the edge off?” echoed John.

Sherlock slowed and shot John a look that might be ignored but couldn’t be misinterpreted.

“Yeah, all right,” said John with a wicked grin.

Sherlock reached a hand out towards John.

John took it with reassuring swiftness, and Sherlock lead her into the alleyway.

Then Sherlock was pressing John’s back to a stone wall, curling her body around John’s to hide her view, of the street and any busybody British government eyes that might be watching.

“How?” Sherlock asked breathlessly.

John’s hands were buried in Sherlock’s hair.

“Just give me something to rut against. And, Christ, do you smell good.”

Sherlock slumped and thrust her leg bent leg out. John straddled it and buried her face in Sherlock’s hair.

“Married to your work, eh?” whispered John, her voice both teasing and ragged as she rut. “So, what am I, your bit of rough on the side?”

“Something like that,” said Sherlock, thinking the metaphor as apt as any. “But I’ve not…” Realising how cliché it sounded, she abandoned the sentence.

“I don’t mind,” said John, pressing a affectionate, sloppy, wet kiss to Sherlock’s cheek. “Fuck, did I mention that you smell good? Oh, God, Sherlock. I’m so ready. It won’t be long.”

Sherlock didn’t care if it took three days. John’s arousal was stoking her own.

This was unexpected. John was unexpected.

John whined, and Sherlock heard a single click of the gnashing of teeth.

“Bite me if you want, John.” Even as she spoke the words, a shudder coursed through Sherlock’s body.

Teeth sank into Sherlock’s neck. Pain. Hard, sharp pain. Hard enough to leave a mark.

Tomorrow, when she looked in the mirror, she’d have a reminder. And wasn’t that a delicious thought?

“Yes, John, yes,” encouraged Sherlock.

Hips grinding, squeezing Sherlock’s thigh.

Sherlock brought her arms and hand on either side of John, selfishly shielding her from the world.

Mine.

“Now you,” insisted John after she kissed Sherlock’s cheek again. “How?”

Sherlock dropped one hand to the front of her trousers and deftly unfastened them.

John put her hand on top of Sherlock’s, and the two hands sank between the wool of the trousers and the thin nylon of Sherlock’s knickers.

“Gentle at first,” cautioned Sherlock.

John’s fingers were copying, learning her movements. John’s lips were kissing her neck and jawline. “You’re in luck, gorgeous, gentle is my specialty,” she breathed against Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock shivered. “Tell that to my neck.”

John licked at the bruised spot. “Sorry not sorry. Good?”

“Yeah. Then, when I’m wet,” continued Sherlock.

Hands pushed inside the nylon, touching wiry hair.

“You like your clit played with?”

It was too good, too sweet. Sherlock couldn’t speak. She simply nodded.

“Just fingers or…?”

Sherlock’s lips were being kissed, then her bottom lip was being taken between two lips and sucked and teased with a flicking tongue. She bucked into John’s hand. She’d slipped her own hand out and braced it against the wall, deciding to give herself over the whatever John wanted to do to her.

“More than just powder burns on my fingers now,” whispered John.

Powder burns from killing for Sherlock, and dampness from fucking her.

Sherlock’s hips bucked once more, and she came.

She was kissing John’s mouth as if her very breath depended on it and cradling John’s head in her hands as if it were the most precious thing on earth—and in that moment, perhaps, it was—and absolutely drowning in pleasure.

“All right?”

John was kissing Sherlock and setting Sherlock’s clothes to rights.

Sherlock’s thoughts were still muddled in the afterglow. It was still cliché, but part of Sherlock insisted on saying it.

“I’ve never…”

“Had a shag in a filthy alley after a case?”

“Yeah.” Sherlock began buttoning up her coat with undue care. “Yes,” she repeated, more firmly and, she thought, in a voice that was more her own. “I’ve always worked alone.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t say I’ve always been a good girl, but getting shot and all the rest of it definitely put it out of my mind. But I can say with all honesty, I’ve never met anyone like you, Sherlock.”

The way she looked at Sherlock, Sherlock couldn’t help but smile.

“Still hungry?”

“You’re joking, right? I’m more famished than ever. And Chinese is good because there’s always extra, right? I can have my lot for breakfast tomorrow when I’m back in my dreary bedsit, thinking this was all a strange dream.”

Bedsit!

John laughed ruefully at what had to be a childishly disappointed expression on Sherlock’s face. “Mrs. Hudson seems like a lovely lady, and Stamford was well-intentioned, but there’s no way I can afford Central London on my own. Even with the damp.”

“Did Mrs. Hudson already quote you a rent?”

“There wasn’t time! I ran off with you, you imperious git! Which, by the way, has got to be the most impulsive decision of a life full of ‘em,” said John. “Come on, let’s eat. This adrenaline is going to wear off some time, and I want to be in my bed—alone, not that the thought of your company doesn’t do things to me—when it does.”

Sherlock frowned.

* * *

The door opened just as Sherlock raised her hand to knock.

“You waited up,” she said.

Mrs. Hudson pulled her dressing gown tighter ‘round herself. “I was worried. You solved the case?”

“Yes.”

“And you weren’t hurt?”

“No.”

“And Doctor Watson?” Mrs. Hudson looked behind Sherlock.

“Has gone back to her bedsit. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded. “I thought you might. Come in. I’ll make us a cuppa.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John moves into 221C. Sherlock welcomes her to the neighbourhood, then gets distracted by a case.

Two days later, Sherlock was taking a deep breath and knocking on the door of 221C.

She needn’t have worried.

As soon as the door opened, John’s face lit with unmitigated joy, a wide, warm grin splitting her face in two.

“Hello, neighbour!” she cried.

Sherlock returned the smile and exhaled the breath she’d be holding.

“Hello, yourself,” she said, buoyed by the sound of her own calm, friendly, casual tone. “I heard the thumping and assumed the best. Just wanted to see how you were getting on.”

“Come in, come in! Just look at this place! You won’t recognise it, I promise.”

Doubtful, thought Sherlock, very doubtful, but she said nothing.

John ushered Sherlock in, extending her arms wide and spinning ‘round, a gesture taking in the whole of the large room about them.

“Goodness!” said Sherlock, feigning surprise at the furnishings. “This _is_ quite a change from the other day.”

“None of this is mine. It was all here when I arrived this morning. Didn’t you hear it?”

“I’ve been busy,” said Sherlock, truthfully.

“Well, Mrs. Hudson said she had a ‘few things she wasn’t using’ in her lumber room.” John shook her head slowly and chuckled. “Who has furniture like this,” she indicated the small sofa and the table and chairs, “just lying about? Or these rugs?” She waved at the floor.

“Mrs. Hudson’s rather Victorian,” said Sherlock. “You never know what might be in her lumber room.” Sherlock hoped Mrs. Hudson never noticed the collection of ears she’d stashed there.

“Perhaps.” John licked her lips and grinned. “And the bed.” She rolled her eyes, sank her hands in her pockets, rocked back on her heels, and gave a long wolf whistle.

“Nice, eh?” said Sherlock. She bit her lip and looked away. She didn’t want John to catch any trace of pride in her expression. She’d been especially satisfied in the choice of the bed. Not too lavish, not too plain. Practical, but handsome.

And, most importantly, large enough for two and sturdy enough for, well, anything John might want to get up to.

“Splendid,” said Sherlock. She strode to the far wall and reached a hand out to brush the surface.

Good. It had dried.

“Mrs. Hudson said that it was some kind of treatment. The damp’s all but gone,” said John.

Not bad, thought Sherlock. It had only taken two coats. She’d worked through the night and used an array of high-powered fans.

“And this,” said John, moving to the small kitchen area, “just arrived.” She flipped open the lid of an enormous hamper. “The note says it’s from the Baker Street Neighbourhood Association. Provisions for an army! I won’t have to go to the shops for two weeks!”

Sherlock hummed and peered inside. She had been so busy with the furniture and the walls that she’d had to delegate the filling of the hamper, but it looked all right.

“This’ll put bacon on your beans and toast,” said John as she took up a black tin of tea, pried off the lid, and tilted the tin towards Sherlock.

Sherlock bent and sniffed and frowned. “Smells like a kept woman.”

John laughed. “It _is_ a bit fruity. But the rest is top shelf. The best part, oh, the best part, Sherlock,” John was touching Sherlock’s sleeve as if it were the most natural thing in world and Sherlock fought the urge to swoon, “is the bloody rent! Mrs. Hudson said that she needed someone to look after the garden, bins, and whatnot and water her plants when she goes off. In exchange for that, well, to put it bluntly, I can afford to live here. As soon as I get settled, I’m going to start looking for work. After a while, I just might be able to put a bit by. It makes me nervous, Sherlock. Too much good luck. I feel like Cinders going to the ball.”

She released Sherlock’s arm, and Sherlock found the wherewithal to say,

“I’m very glad, John. But don’t you think you need another lamp or two?”

Sherlock had worried the rooms were too dark despite Mrs. Hudson’s assurances to the contrary.

“Nah, I like it. It’s cosy. I’m a bit of hobbit, in truth, and it’s like a hobbit hole.”

Hobbit? Yes.

“I suppose that makes me a Smaug,” said Sherlock, turning as if she were swishing a long tail behind her.

John giggled. “God, yeah.”

Sherlock was suddenly overwhelmed by the intimacy which filled the atmosphere. She shook her head, trying to dispel the fog from her thoughts. She left John’s side and strolled about the room, surveying her work and finding it good.

There were only three things belonging to John in the room: two cardboard boxes and a large trunk; the lid latter was flung wide.

Curious, Sherlock peered inside.

“Agatha Christie, John?”

“Is it a surprise? I like detectives,” replied John with a mischievous glint in her eye. “And detective stories.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Lucky me.”

The atmosphere grew even thicker, more charged. John was looking into Sherlock’s eyes and smiling. Then her gaze dropped to Sherlock’s lips, then her neck, then her breasts. Sherlock felt it like a soft, gentle, very welcome caress.

Then John looked away.

“Would you like a cup of tea, Sherlock?” she asked huskily.

Sherlock was surprised by her own honesty. “Not particularly,” she admitted.

John looked back sharply. Her lips twisted in a smirk, and she drew a chair from the table.

“Then have a seat.”

Sherlock sat.

And then John was in Sherlock’s lap and Sherlock’s hands were under John’s jumper and thin vest, touching her warm skin and finding no bra.

“John.”

John hummed, and they kissed, wild and hungry. John’s hands were in Sherlock’s hair.

“I didn’t come down expecting to…”

Oh, God, why on earth did Sherlock insist on spewing clichéd trite when she and John were like this? Really, she should memorise some poetry or filthy pick-up lines—anything would be better these pathetic apologies and excuses!

“But?” prompted John, kissing one corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

“But only the Devil himself could drive me away now.”

John laughed softly, a beautiful musical sound that Sherlock realised she was beginning to crave, then she kissed Sherlock’s cheek and nipped at her ear lobe and whispered,

“Play with my tits?”

Sherlock’s hands came ‘round. “Fuck, John. Soft, so fucking soft.” She cupped John’s full breasts and squeezed and fondled them, her thumbs flicking nipples. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, and her cheek was pressed to John’s. “Suck, too?”

“Yeah, all you want,” said John, pulling her jumper off. She yanked down the front of the sleeveless vest with two hands, and Sherlock buried her face in John’s cleavage and nuzzled.

“That’s right, gorgeous,” said John. She was petting Sherlock’s head, brushing her tightly pinned hair, and Sherlock was valiantly resisting the urge to purr. She took John’s nipple in her mouth and sucked.

“That’s it. Don’t let go,” urged John.

Sherlock had no intention of letting go, but she leaned forward and adjusted her legs as John stood, opened her jeans and pushed them down a bit, and straddled Sherlock’s thigh.

“Nice rut while you suck, yeah?”

Sherlock hummed and moved to the other nipple. One hand was holding John’s back, then other was just beneath the waist of John’s pants and jeans.

John squeezed Sherlock’s thigh hard, and Sherlock released her nipple, admiring the pebbled bud before pressing her face to the side of John’s neck.

Sherlock could not get enough of John, the smooth texture and the warmth of her skin and the quiet, guttural half-groans that bubbled up from the back of her throat and the total wanton abandon with which she was taking her pleasure.

Say something not-idiotic!

“I’ve been thinking of you…”

“Me, too, luv. So much.” John kissed Sherlock’s lips. “So much. Listen, I’m not…”

Sherlock pulled back slightly to look at John’s face. Whatever the reason for John’s anxiety, Sherlock considered the anxiety itself a serious threat to the mood. It had to be exorcized at once.

“Naturally, you go first, John. Flat-warming gift,” she said quickly.

John giggled. “All right, then! You’re certainly warming me up. But don’t think you won’t get your turn.”

“The thought never crossed my mind, John.”

The thought never crossed Sherlock’s mind because all she could think about was John, half naked—Sherlock divested John of her thin vest—in her lap.

She latched onto John’s nipple again as John gripped her thigh with pulsing squeezes, which led to a rather obscene bit of dry-humping and John coming with Sherlock’s name on her lips.

They quickly switched places, John sat, Sherlock stood, looming over her.

John’s hand was in Sherlock’s trousers, petting her just the way she had in the alley, and Sherlock was unbuttoning her shirt and unfastening her bra.

John’s voice cracked. “Oh, God, gorgeous.”

Sherlock bent low, and John kissed the slope of Sherlock’s breast, sweetly, almost reverently. John’s hand, however, was inside Sherlock’s knickers and teasing her clit.

Sherlock wanted more. She opened her mouth, then closed it, feeling heat rising in her cheeks.

“You want my fingers inside you, luv?”

Sherlock nodded eagerly. She gripped the back of the chair and bent awkwardly.

“Oh, fuck, John,” breathed Sherlock as John’s fingertip and thumb took turns teasing her. Her head fell forward until it rested on John’s shoulder.

Then one of John’s digits was thrusting in and out of Sherlock, making a vulgar, wet noise as it pulled out, and Sherlock was putting her hand atop John’s and bucking her hips into the combined pressure and finding her release.

“John.”

“D’you have any idea how lovely you are?” John’s lips were on Sherlock’s cheek again. “You know, if you want, we can move to a very nice sofa or bed or…”

What time was it?!

Sherlock had no idea, and that sent her into a panic.

“I think I may have to go!”

Sherlock was instantly ashamed of the alarm in her tone.

“All right, all right,” said John soothingly. She smoothed Sherlock’s hair and removed her hands from Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock stood up and pivoted and set her clothes to rights. “I might have a case later.” She winced. That wasn’t any better. “I’m afraid I’m making a mess of this.” Sherlock turned back.

John nodded at the shirt with its crooked buttoning. “You won’t impress any clients like that Miss Detective. And anyone with half a deductive bone in their body will know you’ve been shagging.” She smiled and began to re-do the buttoning. “Don’t worry, Sherlock. We’re just getting to know each other. And we like each other. A lot, I think?”

“So much, John,” Sherlock said warmly.

“And we’re friends.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped. “We are?!”

Sherlock didn’t have any friends!

“Well, yeah, right?” said John, then she added, “And neighbours, of course, as of today.”

“In that case, I play the violin. When I’m on a case, I’m oblivious to anything else. I’m rude, moody, arrogant, insufferable, really…”

“I think you’re fantastic!” exclaimed John.

She wasn’t real. She couldn’t be real.

Sherlock leaned forward and cradled John’s head in her hands and kissed her. “I’ve never met anyone like you, John Watson.”

“I’m not going anyway, Sherlock. Now, go meet your client. I’d love to accompany you on the case, but I’ve got unpacking and job hunt and I’m a bit knackered ‘cause I just had a fabulous welcome-to-the-neighbourhood snog. But I want to hear every single detail when the case is over.”

Sherlock nodded, kissed John’s hand—because it seemed like the thing to do—and left.

* * *

Five days later, Sherlock was taking a weary breath and knocking on the door of 221C.

Mrs. Hudson’s door opened.

“She’s not here, luv.”

“Where is she?!” demanded Sherlock testily.

“At work.”

“Work? John doesn’t work.”

“She had an interview and got hired on the spot. Today was her first day. Dear…”

“What?”

“You were rude to her.”

“I haven’t seen her for almost a week!”

Mrs. Hudson shot Sherlock a look.

“Have I?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes. And you were rude.”

“Oh.”

“Flowers always go nice with an apology, my dear,” said Mrs. Hudson before disappearing back into her own flat.

* * *

“John.”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock rose from the steps and held out the bouquet. “Congratulations on the job. I apologise for being rude.”

“Don’t worry about it. Thanks,” John said, taking the flowers. “My new co-workers took me out for a pint. Have you been waiting long?”

Sherlock shook her head. “Would you like to go for an evening ramble? You know, just a walk about the city. You can tell me about the surgery, I can tell you about the case.”

“Yeah, I’d love to. Let me put these in water.”

* * *

Sherlock bounded up the stairs three hours later.

So _that_ was the mysterious creature called ‘a good night kiss.’

Interesting.

By force of habit, Sherlock skipped the penultimate step. By equal force of habit, she glanced at the skull and the hourglass.

Two days and change until the next case, and for the next case, Sherlock promised herself, John would be by her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit about the tea is the reason for the fic. I received 3 tins of tea from overseas (all by Mariage Frères) and said I would write a fic about each one based on the first thing that occurred to me when I first sniffed it. The first one produced the fic Yunnan Imperial. The second one is Shanghai Breakfast tea, and the first thing I said when I smelled it was 'This smells like a kept woman.' Here's [the story](https://stonepicnicking-okapi.dreamwidth.org/6376.html) on my DW. So this story's been brewing since mid- December.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock & John have a sexy weekend in Paris, but Sherlock's choices are beginning to haunt her.

Sherlock paid the cabbie and held her breath.

Moment of truth.

Would it be a good surprise or a bad one?

“John.”

John sniffed and frowned and slowly opened her eyes. She looked at Sherlock and then behind Sherlock.

“I told you that as soon as our hellish case was over, I wanted to take you to a little French place for dinner.”

John nodded and blinked. “Where are we?”

“Heathrow.”

John chuckled sleepily, then said, “You’re a nutter, Sherlock Holmes.”

* * *

“This view, Sherlock!”

John was looking at the lights of Paris. Sherlock was, of course, looking at John.

“Swept away to the Continent for a romantic weekend!”

“It’s a brief, but well-deserved holiday,” said Sherlock. She stepped behind John and wound her arms around John’s waist. “I know it’s has been a brutal week,” she whispered in John’s short, shower-damp hair, and as another pang of guilt struck, she added, “I apologise. It was reprehensible of me to condemn you to my fate.”

“I was a voluntary accomplice,” said John lightly. “And really there’s nothing like watching you when you’re on fire like that.”

John drew Sherlock’s arms tighter around her.

Reassured, Sherlock relaxed and turned her attention to the cityscape.

“I just wish it hadn’t gone on for so long,” continued John. “That pace was difficult to maintain. I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired, not even in medical school, but a nap and a shower and room service have done wonders to bring me back to life. And this view, Sherlock! It’s absolutely incredible!”

“So are you.”

John leaned back against Sherlock. Then she turned her head and said, conspiratorially,

“Only one bed.”

Sherlock kissed John’s temple. “You noticed that, hmm?”

“I did. I’m learning to be more observant, you see, like my friend and neighbour, the detective.”

Friend. The word still shook Sherlock to her very core, but she kept her tone casual and teasing.

“Whatever shall we do? About the one bed, I mean?”

“My suggestion would be to have obscene amounts of sex. Together. I mean, you and I and no one else.”

Sherlock laughed. “That’s an excellent suggestion.”

“I thought so, but what I’m most looking forward to is getting you horizontal—not that I’m complaining. Up against walls and in chairs and in the loo of Scotland Yard have held tremendous appeal.”

“The last especially if my powers of observation don’t fail me. Something about being caught?”

Sherlock had wondered.

“Not really,” said John. “Or not more than wanting to have sex with you on this balcony is about showing off. It’s mostly about you.”

“Coming to Paris was all about you, John.”

“Coming _in_ Paris will be all about me, too.”

John wiggled her eyebrows.

“Oh, the puns,” said Sherlock with a mock groan, “forget the assassins’ bullets and the Borgia tea, it is the wicked puns will be the death of me.”

“You love them.”

Sherlock did. She gave John an affectionate squeeze.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock had a mental catalogue of all the ways that John had said her name. This one she recognised from the loo at Scotland Yard.

Sherlock slipped a hand under John’s jumper and vest. She knew, that is, she had deduced, that her hand would touch bare breast, but it was still an adolescent thrill when it did so.

John had not yet explained her philosophy of bra wearing (or not wearing). Sherlock had her theories, of course, but she hadn’t asked. She preferred to preserve the mystery a bit longer.

She cupped John’s breast. “So full and soft and…”

John opened her jeans. Sherlock slid her other hand beneath the denim and cupped John’s mons, atop her pants.

Pants, not knickers.

Not much mystery there, but Sherlock had knickers enough for two, and right now, the ones she was wearing were growing damp.

One hand on John’s breast, one on her pussy.

She was going to fuck John Watson right here, on the rooftops of Paris, and then John was going to take her to a nice, soft, horizonal bed and return the favour.

“Right here, love,” said John as if reading Sherlock’s thoughts. “I don’t care if all of Paris sees what a tart I am for you.”

“John.”

Sherlock bit the nape of John’s neck, then licked the skin her teeth had pinched. She fondled John’s breast, gently squeezing the warm, pliable flesh and gently rubbing the nipple with her thumb.

“Your tits, John.”

“You’re one to talk, Jesus Christ!” John swallowed loudly, then added, with a slight strain in her voice, a strain that send ripples of delight through Sherlock, “And you put yours in such pretty things.”

At that moment, Sherlock was wearing something new in dark purple lace. Anticipating the look on John’s face when she finally saw it made Sherlock slightly light-headed.

“You don’t put yours in anything, most of the time.”

John snorted. Her body rested even more heavily against Sherlock’s. “Before, it never much mattered. With you, it’s just fun.”

Sherlock had been stroking the centre of John’s pants with two fingers, slowly, almost absentmindedly. Now she made a fist with her hand.

Sherlock knew two things by now. John liked to be teased. And she liked to rut.

John grabbed Sherlock’s fist and pressed it hard against her. She bucked clumsily, then made a noise of frustration.

Sherlock shushed John, then grabbed her waist and spun her ‘round, pulling jumper and vest off her as she turned.

“Hello, Paris,” said Sherlock. “This is John Watson.”

Sherlock dragged a heavy ironwork chair away from the table by the arm and sat.

John wriggled out of pants and jeans and fell into Sherlock’s lap stark naked.

Sherlock was, frankly, surprised at the rapidity with which John had shed her clothes, and it must’ve shown in her expression.

“Paris,” said John by way of explanation. Then she was kissing Sherlock like a courtesan and straddling Sherlock’s thigh and rutting herself to climax almost immediately. There was no pause. As soon as John came, she began to trail tiny kisses along Sherlock’s nose. Then she sighed,

“Suck my tits, love.”

As Sherlock took John’s nipple in her mouth, she congratulated herself on her choice of destination. Really, sometimes, she was bloody brilliant! She’d convince Mycroft to buy the suite if this was John’s characteristic response to the City of Lights.

“I’m sorry,” said John when Sherlock had popped off one nipple and latched onto the other. “Please, suck my tits, love. No need to be rude about it, eh? Thank you so much. It feels so good, especially that thing with your tongue, when you circle ‘round it and then flick…”

John was so funny sometimes.

Sherlock silenced her with a kiss. She hadn’t missed the ‘love,’ though. Twice.

Sherlock caressed John’s shoulders and upper arms, lingering over the scar on her left shoulder, mapping the textures of John’s skin, smooth and rough, with her fingertips. Then she moved lower and began to massage John’s back.

“Fuck me,” breathed John. “Thank you, please, don’t stop, oh, god. Harder, love, harder.”

Sherlock pulled off John’s nipple and nuzzled in the valley between John’s breasts. She dug the pads of her fingers as deep as she dared into John’s body, kneading and loosening the taut muscles.

John groaned a deep, hollow groan.

“I’m sorry, John. It’s all the sleeping in chairs and taxis and—”

“—propped up against the vending machine at Scotland Yard like a forgotten mop—” interjected John.

“—It’s left you in knots.”

“S’alright,” whispered John. “I don’t mind. I was with you.”

John petted and stroked Sherlock’s hair. It felt so good Sherlock was in real danger of crying, but then John’s hands gripped her shoulders.

“Another little one, yeah?”

Sherlock realised that John was rutting again.

“John, I know we haven’t known each other for that long, but, please, for future reference, you never need my permission to orgasm. Not the first, second, or hundredth time.”

“Hundredth? Ambitious.”

“Aim high, that’s me.”

“So, you’re not into denial?”

“There are moments when I find myself unable to deny you anything, John.”

There were other moments, too, but Sherlock didn’t want to think about those moments, not when the case was over and the next hadn’t begun and she had an aroused, nude, and uninhibited John Watson in her lap.

John’s breath was noisy and ragged, and her stifled little whines were like tiny pinpricks of desire along Sherlock’s spine. John’s grip on Sherlock was almost vise-like, her rutting fast and hard.

“Oh, love, oh, love, oh!”

Love. There is was yet again.

“Thank you,” sighed John when she’d finished.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “My pleasure.”

“Not yet. But soon. Like now. I’m cold. Bed?”

* * *

John’s jaw dropped.

Sherlock stood at the edge of the bed in bra and knickers, striking a pose.

“Speechless, John?”

John nodded.

The look on her face. Not in all Sherlock’s dreams and nightmares could she have predicted that anyone would ever look at her like that. If she could’ve, she might not have…

“Come here, gorgeous.”

As Sherlock knelt on the bed, John swooped behind her and yanked Sherlock’s bra strap halfway down, then licked a stripe where the strap had been, from Sherlock’s back to her shoulder. Then John bit, light and playfully, at the ridge of the shoulder. Her other hand was cupping Sherlock’s breast, fondling it through the purple lace.

“So beautiful,” she growled into Sherlock’s neck before she kissed it.

“John.”

John sucked at Sherlock’s earlobe and pushed her hand beneath the lace to pinch Sherlock’s nipple.

“John!”

John licked on either side of the bra strap, tracing where the strap met the band across Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock made to remove the bra entirely, but John stopped her.

“I like it,” she said, almost shyly. “Keep it on a while longer.”

Sherlock nodded. She’d wear the damn coat if John wanted!

John tugged at the bra straps with her teeth and then nosed into each of the cups with a wriggling tongue. She sucked hard on each nipple. “Whatever you want,” she said as she ran her hand in caressing circles over Sherlock’s stomach and down to the waistband of the knickers. “You want to be kissed and petted or eaten out or fingered or have your clit sucked?”

“Yes, yes, yes, and yes.”

John laughed and kissed Sherlock’s lips. “Well, I’d best get started then!”

Sherlock was turned onto her stomach, then onto her back. She was brought to her hands and knees and rolled on each side. Bra and knickers were, eventually, flung to opposite sides of the room.

John’s mouth and hands were everywhere.

Sherlock had already come once, with two of John’s fingers curled inside her and John’s mouth on her clit, and now she was on her back once more, propped up on pillows, looking down at John, whose head was buried between her legs.

She brushed John’s hair gently and said,

“I don’t want you to stop.”

John bit at Sherlock’s inner thigh. “Going to let me fall asleep in the saddle?”

“Something like that.”

John snickered. Then she pulled away. “Get a blanket. I want to do this under the stars.”

* * *

Sherlock was still looking at those stars the following night after dinner. She and John were snuggled together in a lounge chair beneath a blanket.

John was dozing.

Sherlock was not. She was volleying back and forth between savouring the moment and wondering when the other shoe was going to fall.

She felt lips, then a tongue on her clavicle.

“You okay?” asked John.

Sherlock looked down. “Mm. You?”

“Never better.”

John sat up. The blanket fell off her, revealing her nude torso.

She was the most beautiful thing in the world.

Sherlock studied her, memorising every detail.

“The way you look at me, Sherlock.”

“How?”

John giggled. “Like a crime scene.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“It’s all right. The only way you could have your cake and eat it, too, would be if you had to solve the murder of John Watson.”

“NO!”

“Hey, hey, it was just a joke. A bad one. I’m sorry.” John kissed Sherlock’s lips. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock nodded, but the words had already left their wound somewhere deep inside her. She tried to ignore it as John leaned forward and straddled her once more. She held John close and licked at her cleavage.

“I love your tits, John.”

“I know. I love yours, too.”

Sherlock sucked hard at each nipple. “I love your arse and your thighs and your tummy and your scar…”

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“I want your tongue inside me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Clit, too?”

“Fingers and clit. Gentle, though, yeah? Very, very gentle.”

“Come here.”

They switched places.

John leaned back in the chair and hooked her short legs over the chair arms. She played with her breasts then, with two fingers, spread her lips while Sherlock watched, hungrily.

“See how wet I am?”

“All for me,” said Sherlock.

“All for you.”

“Gentle, yeah?”

“Don’t worry, John. I’ll never, ever hurt you.”

But even as she said the words, Sherlock regretted them. She shouldn’t make promises that she couldn’t keep.

Nevertheless, she was gentle, tongue-fucking John’s cunt, licking her folds, kissing her clit.

John didn’t come until she was straddling Sherlock’s thigh, but when she did, it seemed to go on and on.

“I’m too raw, love. Let’s go to bed.”

Sherlock didn’t want it to end. She didn’t want to close her eyes. She did not want to be alone with her demons. And, most of all, she did not want John to accompany her on the next case.

_The only way you could have your cake and eat it, too, would be if you had to solve the murder of John Watson._

Sherlock remembered John’s words, then pushed them to back of her mind.

Sex. Obscene amounts of sex. While there was still time, still red grains yet to fall.

“Can I ride you, John?”

“My tongue, you mean?”

Sherlock nodded. "And your lips."

John grinned and when she spoke it was in a sing-song imitation of Sherlock’s posh voice. “I know we haven’t known each other very long, Sherlock, but for future reference…”

* * *

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock stopped abruptly and tottered. She could only distinguish a vague, blurry, John-shaped outline standing in the hall. Nevertheless, she dutifully tried to nod, tried to smile.

“John.”

As John moved closer, her face, creased with concern, came into focus. “Good Lord,” she breathed.

“It was a challenging case,” murmured Sherlock, her tongue getting unconscionably wound ‘round the word ‘challenging.’

“Are you injured?!”

“No, no,” said Sherlock hastily. She gave a weak, dismissive wave. “Just a bit tired.” The hand that reached for the railing was shaking but whether it was a result of exhaustion or dehydration or low blood sugar or all three, Sherlock could not say. “I’ll come down for a visit in the morning.”

“It’s half eight in the morning _now_.”

This was news.

“Is it? Uh, um…”

“Sherlock…”

“Not now.” As soon as the words were spoken, Sherlock’s heart curdled with remorse. “I’m sorry, John. I really, really don’t mean to be rude…”

“It’s all right.”

Sherlock looked from the skull to the hourglass, with its three days of red sand in the top bulb. Then she collapsed on the sofa, still in her coat and scarf and shoes.

Her last thought before sinking into oblivion was that she must make it up to John, somehow, when she woke...

Somewhere in the deep recesses of Sherlock’s mind, she registered slow, careful, rising footfall on the stairs.

_One, two, three, four, five…_

Though still in the twilight between asleep and awake, she instinctively set about deducing the source of the footsteps. As she did so, the bile rose in her throat and her stomach tied in a hard knot of alarm.

_Six, seven, eight, nine, ten…_

Oh, please, no!

Sherlock got to her feet and stumbled drunkenly towards the door.

_Eleven, twelve, thirteen…_

But she forgot about the coffee table.

“Damn!”

The voice that answered her expletive was soft and tentative.

“Sherlock? I thought you might like some soup…”

_Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…_

“NO!”

BOOM!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets hurt. Twice. Angst!

For the third time, Sherlock applied the cooling gel to John’s hand and forearms. Then, also for the third time, she fled to John’s bathroom to perform ablutions. She rinsed her face with the coldest water the tap could provide and dried it carefully. She studied herself in the mirror, and only when she was certain that there was no lingering evidence of her crying, did she return to her seat.

It was on her fourth return to John’s bedside that John surfaced.

“Sherlock?”

“John.”

Sherlock hoped her voice didn’t betray her.

They stared at each other in silence for a while, then John shifted in the bed. She gave a soft cry of surprise and pain and raised her hands, which were decorated with angry splotches, before her eyes.

“Was it…the devil?”

Sherlock stared dumbly, then echoed, “The devil?”

“Was it the devil who burnt me and,” John winced, brought a hand to her head, and winced again, “hit me on the head?”

“Why would you say that?” asked Sherlock pointedly. “Why would you say it was the devil?”

John didn’t seem to notice the panic in Sherlock’s voice. She simply sighed and looked about the bedroom as if the dresser or the wardrobe could tell her the answer. “Why would I say that?” she asked aloud. Then she answered herself, hesitantly, “Because the devil took me?”

No, no, no!

“When?”

John shook her head, then grimaced so violently that Sherlock did, too.

“I don’t know,” hissed John through gritted teeth. “I can’t remember.”

“Don’t strain yourself, John.” Sherlock schooled her voice to its gentlest timbre. “But can you remember anything of what the devil looked like?”

John exhaled and seemed to sink more heavily into the pillows. She fixed her gaze on the ceiling.

“Tall and,” she licked her chapped lips, “vulpine.”

“Horns? Tail?” prompted Sherlock.

“No. No cloven hooves or pitchfork either. Actually, it was a bespoke suit that had to be worth more than my pension.”

“Oh,” groaned Sherlock, rolling her eyes and relaxing in spite of herself, “Interrogated you about me?”

“Yeah and, hold on, it’s coming back. Lots of obnoxious questions about you. Knew absolutely everything about me. And, wait for it, offered me money to spy on you!”

“What did you say to that?”

“I took it, of course. I don’t pass up good money, Sherlock. Nobody’s who been in my shoes does.”

Sherlock laughed.

“I figured we could split it. Find my wallet. I’ll give you your half,” added John with a glint in her eyes and a minute wiggle of her eyebrows.

“That wasn’t the devil, John.”

John eyed Sherlock appraisingly. “No, it wasn’t, was it? Unless you’ve got a very curious family tree. That nose, Sherlock, is difficult to disguise.”

“Difficult but not impossible. I suppose it was only a matter of time, and that was as good as introduction as any. You met my older sister, Mycroft.”

“Older sister, eh? That makes sense. She had an old-fashioned ‘are you going to do right by our Nell?’ way about her. Almost charming. Almost.”

“She loves to be dramatic.”

“Well, thank god, you’re above all that.”

Sherlock laughed again.

“How did she know so much about me, Sherlock?”

“If you ask, she says she occupies a minor position in the British government, but in reality, she is the British government. Sometimes, the British Secret Service. Sometimes, the CIA.”

“Huh. Tinker, tailor stuff. Smart, then?”

“Smarter than me—don’t tell her I said that.”

“Wow. Not a chance. My lips are sealed. But she worries about you. A lot.”

“I’ve given her cause.”

“The drugs.”

It came out of nowhere and struck Sherlock like a blow to the chest.

“How?” she gasped.

“I’ve had my tongue all over you, remember? Sometime in the dark but sometimes in the not-so-dark. You’ve got scars. Not many, but a few. And the way you hid them, especially in the beginning.”

“You are not an idiot, John.”

“Just getting that now, eh? You’ve got an awfully low opinion of people, Sherlock Holmes.” Despite her words, there was no rancor in her voice. She gave Sherlock smile. “Anyway, I know you’re clean now.”

“How?”

“The way you drive yourself on these cases. I don’t think you could manage a wife and _two_ mistresses. But speaking of me not being an idiot, what really happened to me?” She raised her hands. “Your sister’s a prat but she didn’t burn me.”

“You were bringing me some soup and fell and hit your head on the stairs.”

“Ah, yeah, it’s coming back. You looked done-in. You still do, by the way.”

“I’ve been worried about you.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“I don’t know what to do, John.”

It was the most honest thing Sherlock had said yet.

“What do you mean?”

“I want you on cases, but I want you safe, too. And when I’m on a case, I’m…”

“Yeah, I know.”

“…and the cases themselves are grueling.”

“The way you solve them, they are.”

“I want you with me on the next one. Please? If you’re feeling up to it, of course…”

“I’m not going to promise anything, Sherlock. But if I’m feeling okay…”

“Of course, of course.”

“You need to get some sleep, love.”

Love.

John still called her ‘love.’

That was something, wasn’t it?

Sherlock pressed her lips together and shook her head stubbornly.

“Please, Sherlock. I’ll text you if I need you, yeah?”

“Very well.”

* * *

“Sherlock, what are you doing? The ambulance is leaving!”

“I’m staying, working the case.”

Lestrade stared, then blinked. “You’re getting in that ambulance and going with John to the hospital! She’s just been shot, for Christ’s sake!”

Sherlock huffed and rolled her eyes. “I know. I was there, remember? As soon as the case is closed, I’ll go to her.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying this. John. Is. Shot. Go. With. Her. Now.”

“You’re not listening, and we’re wasting time,” said Sherlock impatiently. She tried to move around Lestrade, but Lestrade blocked her way.

“You’re a piece of work, you know that, Sherlock?”

“So I’ve been told. But I’m the piece of work that’s going to solve this case.”

“John needs you!”

“I’m not a doctor or a nurse! And I have to finish this case first or…”

“Or what?”

“I just need to.”

“Not with me, you don’t. You’re off it, officially and unofficially, until you grow a heart. I’ll arrest you for hindering a police investigation if I see you anywhere near…”

“You can’t stop me from working the case, Lestrade.”

“Just watch me. But tell me this: do you care about John at all?”

Sherlock suddenly felt very cold. “Caring is a disadvantage.”

“Now you’re sounding like your sister. Get out! Now!”

“I’ll find Killer Evans by the end of the day, and you’ll be thanking me with your slice of crow pie!” roared Sherlock before storming off.

* * *

But it didn’t take a day to bring Killer Evans to justice.

It took ten, including a trip to Chicago.

When Sherlock finally returned to Baker Street, she didn’t go up the stairs. She hovered at John’s door.

“She went back to work,” said a voice.

Sherlock turned.

Mrs. Hudson smiled nervously. “Would like a cup of tea?”

Sherlock was debating her reply when the front door opened.

“John!”

Oh, that look.

The knot in Sherlock’s stomach grew harder.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

“Killer Evans is in police custody.”

“Good.”

Sherlock stepped out of the way as John approached her door and unlocked it.

Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson retreat into her own flat.

“John, I—”

“Don’t you dare apologise. You aren’t sorry. I haven’t seen you in almost two weeks. The last time I saw you I was covered in blood. Not a single phone call or text. Not a word.”

“John—”

“Don’t say anything.” Sherlock was secretly gratefully for the interruption because she wasn’t certain what precisely she’d been planning to say. “You told me the first day we met. You said you were married to your work. And I, damn it, have been content to play mistress. Be at your beck and call. Be ignored when it suits you. Good enough to fly to Paris and fuck but not good enough to invite up for a cuppa. But,” John shook her head and the tears welled and quickly rolled down her cheeks, “I’m not putting up with it anymore. But I need you to tell me one thing. I need you to tell me the truth: why is my rent so cheap?”

“Because I supplement it.”

“How much?”

“I pay half.”

John whistled. “And the furniture?”

“I bought.”

“Why?”

“The rent because I wanted you here. The furniture because I wanted you to be comfortable, and I knew you were too poor to afford anything nice. I did the treatment to the walls, too, for the damp.”

“So, in a nutshell, you’ve been keeping me? Like a mistress?”

“Yes.”

John nodded and wiped her face with the back of her hand.

“Why, Sherlock?”

Sherlock produced a handkerchief and held it out.

John looked at folded cambric and chuckled ruefully; nevertheless, she took it and dried her eyes.

“And, from the very beginning, I’ve known that I wanted you in my life and, from the very beginning, I’ve had the urge to take care of you. And, now, I’m almost certain I love you.”

John had started crying again. Now Sherlock was, too. John returned the handkerchief, and Sherlock blotted her face.

“I know I’ve don’t nothing in the last ten days to show it, but I do. There are so many things that I would like to be different. But I can’t make the promises I want to make to you. Frankly, I don’t know if I’m allowed to change, but I’m going to find out. And if change is allowed, then I’m going to return and make you the promises I so badly want to make, and I hope that you will want to hear them.”

“And if change isn’t possible?”

“Then I’m not coming back at all.”

“I don’t understand, Sherlock. You don’t know if you’re _allowed_ to change? Who gives you permission?”

“The devil.”

John gawked, then she laughed mirthlessly. “You’re a nutter! Good night, Sherlock Holmes!”

And with that, she stepped inside and closed the door.

The bolt of John’s door clanked.

Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson’s door shut quietly, too, but as she made for the stairs, she had far too much on her mind to spare even a single thought for eavesdropping landladies.

Conjuring the devil.

She had done it once. She could do it again.

This time she had just as much, if not more, incentive to deal, but, and this was the crux of the matter, absolutely nothing with which to bargain.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After her battle with the devil, Sherlock tells John her story. She and John reconcile. And they live happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was personal so an even bigger thank-you than customary for my dear femlock readers who went on this journey with me. I hope the ending satisfies.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock opened her eyes.

“There you are.”

Without moving her head, Sherlock let her eyes roam.

Her bedroom. John in her bedroom!

“John!”

“Hey, it’s all right. Mrs. Hudson’s tidying up. Might be a bit cold.” John fussed with the comforter, smoothing it, then tucking it more tightly around Sherlock. “I had to open all the windows, even the window at this end of the hall, to let the smoke out.”

“John…”

“I was going to call an ambulance, but the state of your sitting room,” John shot a look over her shoulder, “might raise questions you don’t want raised. So, battlefield triage it is.”

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Thank you for your discretion.”

“In return for my discretion, Sherlock, I want the whole story from the beginning.”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Out there,” John pointed to the door, “in addition to the mess that Mrs. Hudson assures me is a product of your own natural ‘Bohemian disposition,’ there is broken glass, red sand, about a million pieces of bone, bunches of herbs, bottles of oil, and clouds of the foulest smoke I’ve ever had the misfortune to breathe—mind you, I’ve been to war—and what just might be an eye of fucking newt!”

“A book?”

“Piles of them. Shelves are packed.”

“An old, large, brown, dusty book with chains and a padlock?”

John laughed. “No, can’t say I saw anything like that. But difficult to say. You can check for yourself—after you tell me the story. What were you doing? And what does it have to do with me?”

“How do you know—?”

“Not an idiot, remember? Start at the beginning.”

Now was the moment. To be stubborn or evasive was folly. There was no shielding John. And, more selfishly, there was no shielding herself from John’s reaction.

“From the beginning?”

“Please,” said John as if they’d been reading from the same script.

“Well,” said Sherlock, “in the beginning, I was high.”

“I was a junkie. I didn’t think I was, of course, I suppose no junkie thinks of themselves that way in the beginning, but subsequent events have made me reconsider and be more honest. So that’s established: me, junkie. And, also, detective. I suppose you could say my first case was in uni. But that one was messy.”

“Sentimental?”

“Precisely. It ended with my classmate’s father dying under mysterious circumstances, and her being forced to return to India. I dropped out soon after that. So, me, junkie, alone, and then I crossed paths with a former classmate, Reggie Musgrave, and she remembered my ‘tricks,’ as my classmates used to call them. She had a problem she thought I could solve. That was my first real case. It was fantastic: family secrets, historical lore, a riddle poem, an old stately manor falling into disrepair, and hidden treasure.”

“You’re joking!”

“Nope. I’ll tell you the whole story one day.”

“You’d better, but, yeah, no distractions. All right, first proper case. Not high?”

“No. I didn’t use at all while I was helping Reggie. I didn’t want to. I didn’t even think about it. I didn’t suffer much withdrawal. The high of the case proved just as sweet as that of anything I’d ever shot up. The problem came after the case.”

“Relapse?”

“Nasty relapse.”

John nodded.

“I knew needed another case, but I couldn’t find one. I searched everywhere. No one in the police took me seriously. Lestrade hadn’t yet been transferred or promoted. There aren’t words to describe the state I was in. Desperation. Panic. The absolute certainty that the junkie would take over, that I would kill myself, one way or the other, if I wasn’t able to do the work that I knew I was made for.”

“So?”

“So, I stumbled around the city and ended up in an old bookstore. There I came across a book of spells.”

John’s eyes widened. “The occult? You?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Like a lot of desperate, panicked people. It seemed like the natural world wasn’t going to help me, so I turned to the supernatural. And the upshot was that I conjured the devil. So, there. Don’t believe me. No one should believe me. I wouldn’t believe me if it weren’t for what happened next.”

“Sherlock, you were using. Could ‘the devil’ have been a hallucination?”

“I suppose so. I’ve considered that, of course, but it seemed real. The voice. The smell. The figure itself.”

“All right, I’ll bite: what does the devil look like?”

“Tall, grotesque, everything exaggerated. More like a beak than a nose. Long fingernails. Tail.”

“Colour?”

“Pale.”

“Not dark, huh.”

Sherlock shot her a look. “Everyone knows the devil’s white, John.”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” said John. “So, it spoke English?”

Sherlock considered. “I’m not certain. I understood, and I replied, but I can’t say what language it was. I speak about a dozen, understand a dozen more.” Sherlock sighed. “It was one encounter, one bargain. I exchanged my soul for the Work, specifically a stream of cases which would be separated by three days of rest. The three days was a compromise. I wanted less. The devil said more. We split the difference.”

“Sherlock…”

“I know!” cried Sherlock. “Anything that’s crossing your mind has crossed mine a thousand times! I was knocked out by something, and when I woke, there was the skull and the hourglass.” She raised a hand toward the door.

“Wait, you were here? In this flat?”

“Yes. I’d just moved in. Hadn’t even unpacked. Mrs. Hudson is an old friend of my mother’s.” Sherlock picked at the comforter. “The devil kept its side of the bargain. The cases started coming, down to the fall of the last grain of sand in the hourglass. Three days of rest. No more, no less. I kept my promise and let nothing interfere with the Work. And I’ve had no use of or desire for any other stimulant since.”

“That’s why you work yourself so hard on the cases.”

“Yes. That’s why I didn’t come with you to hospital when you were shot. The deal was if I didn’t solve the case, my soul would be forfeit.”

“You’d die?”

“Worse than death. I’d be a slave to the devil. I’m sorry, John, I’m sorry. I had to solve it. The only time that was my own was when the case was solved.”

“And you’ve never violated the contract?”

Sherlock shook her head.

“I’m not doubting what you think is real, Sherlock.” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “Could you just consider the possibility that it’s all in your mind? That you’re driving yourself because you want to drive yourself?”

“Yes. I’ve often thought that. But the timing of the cases is not coincidence, and the hourglass re-sets itself when the case is over. I’ve examined it. I can’t find any mechanism responsible. And then there’s the skull.”

“The skull?”

“The skull is the devil’s representative. It’s watching to make certain I comply. But there’s nothing in it either.”

“Huh. Big brother. How do you know it’s watching?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“All right. So, what happened tonight?”

“I wanted to renegotiate terms, of course. I wanted time to be my own again. I wanted time with you. I wanted to be able to solve the cases at my own pace. I wanted to be able to have you here—”

“Wait, the devil said no guests?”

“Yes. I was to keep my own counsel, my own company.”

John’s gaze narrowed. “If you don’t mind me asking, Sherlock, when you were using, just what kind of counsel and company did you keep?”

“There’s a limited range for junkies, John.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.” John frowned. “So, wait a minute—”

“I set up traps around the flat to discourage guests. Only Mrs. Hudson knew where they were.” Sherlock felt her chest tighten. She looked away. “I even put a small detonation device—”

“Holy fuck! You blew me up on the stairs! With the soup!”

“Yes, I’m sorry, John,” said Sherlock quickly. “That wasn’t the devil. That was me. I removed all of them, I swear.”

John stared, slack jawed. Then she exhaled and leaned back in the chair. “All right, let’s skip the fact that I stepped on one of your booby traps. Go on. What happened after you left me yesterday evening?”

“I did it again. After I finally got rid of Mrs. Hudson by drinking her tea and telling her a very abridged version of our row—”

“She tried the same with me. I was a bit hard on her, I’m afraid. I was still sore about everything. I took the tea, but I didn’t even drink it. So, tonight, the same figure reappeared?”

“Yes. I was able to do it again, to conjure the devil.”

“And?”

“And we fought.”

“Physically?”

Sherlock tried to remember. Finally, she said,

“I…don’t…know.”

“Something smashed the skull and the hourglass.”

“That was me,” said Sherlock firmly. “I did that. With a weighted stick. It’s an antique, but very useful.”

“That’s what Mrs. Hudson and I heard. The smashing. The smoke was very thick when we came up the stairs.”

“The spell called for the burning of a mixture of herbs.”

“You must’ve been burning a whole forest, Sherlock! So, is the spell broken?”

“I don’t know.”

“I guess we’ll just have to wait, what? Two days?”

Sherlock nodded, then one corner of her mouth twitched. “There’s an upstairs bedroom—if we’ll be needing two.”

“Well, that’s one way of keeping an eye on you,” replied John with an impish smile. Then she added, more soberly, “I tell you, Sherlock, I’m not keen to let you out of my sight until this thing is decided, one way or another. And given how much tidying up this flat could stand, in addition to what Mrs. Hudson’s doing right now, my hands won’t be idle.”

“Good. Because you know about idle hands…”

John laughed. “And I thought the bad jokes were my department…”

* * *

“It’s been an hour.”

“Yes.”

* * *

“It’s been two hours.”

“Yes. I’m going to text Lestrade.”

**Case? SH**

**Sod off. On holiday! GL**

“That’s promising,” said John, reading Sherlock’s mobile upside down.

* * *

“It’s been six hours.”

“Yes. Did you bin the eyeballs, John?”

“Yes.”

“John!”

* * *

“Sherlock, have you thought about—?”

“Probably.”

“What was the result of the devil business? I mean, what really happened, theatrics aside?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you eliminate all the nonsense, the result was you stopped using, right?”

“Right. Well, more precisely, I substituted one drug, Work, for another. Oh, I see. You think I made it all up to get myself clean?”

“Not exactly. I think there’s someone who would’ve moved heaven and earth to get you clean.”

Sherlock snorted. “There is no someone. Not for me.”

“Your sister.”

“Hates me. We haven’t spoken for years.”

“Anyone who would go to the effort of kidnapping a total stranger and taking them to a warehouse to interrogate them about you is not indifferent to your wellbeing, Sherlock.”

“She did that just to annoy me!” Sherlock huffed. “She did it to Lestrade, too, by the way, when I first started consulting with her. It couldn’t be Mycroft. The whole enterprise would involve legwork, something that is anathema to her. How would she know about the book?”

“But the book’s gone.”

“True.”

“And you said your sister had minions.”

Sherlock stared at John. Then her eyes fell to the floor, and her mind wandered. “I can’t image her outsourcing something like this…”

“All right, hold that for a moment. Could she arrange the cases, Sherlock?”

“Perhaps. But with such precision?”

“Impossible?”

“Difficult but not impossible.”

“Don’t you have a saying about the highly improbable?”

Sherlock shot John a wry look.

“Could your sister have impersonated the devil, Sherlock?”

“Easily,” murmured Sherlock, “without a costume, but I would’ve recognised her! I was as close to it as I am to you…”

“If you were drugged?”

“How?”

“I don’t know. But since I met you, I’ve learned a lot more about people. For example, I’ve learned love is a much more vicious motivator. Too, it often makes for more reliable collaborators than mere money.” John looked down at the floor. It was not difficult to follow her line of thought.

“You think…”

“I think, Sherlock, someone who was, as you say, a friend of your mother’s might be persuaded to do questionable things for your own good. To avoid watching your life, your mind, your gifts and talents go to waste. Maybe it was as simple as someone who has access to your flat—and who knows where the booby traps are—coming up here and turning the hourglass over.”

Sherlock felt the revelation dawn violently, viscerally. It was like red sand being pulled from under her by the tide. It was like something fragile shattering and raining shard down around her.

“Or it could be the way you say it is,” added John casually. “God knows there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in my philosophies. And I’ll forgive you for blowing me up with your murder step, if you forgive me for holding back on you: I’ve got a clue.”

“John!”

John stood and went to the bookcase and produced a handkerchief from a plastic bag.

Sherlock studied the small stain on the cloth. “Paint.”

“Sparkly glow-in-the-dark paint.”

“Where did you find it?”

“On the sill of the window at the end of the hall when I opened it to let the smoke out. I left half of the stain where it was, and when Mrs. Hudson called it a night after tidying up, the rest of it was gone. Now she might have just cleaned it because she’s a good housekeeper.”

“She’s not a housekeeper!”

“Precisely.”

Sherlock looked at John and beamed proudly. “You have learned a thing or two with me, haven’t you?”

John smiled as she returned to her seat.

“How did I not see it?” breathed Sherlock as she set the handkerchief aside.

“Shame? It distorts. It blinds. And, well, you don’t have a whole lot of people around to talk these things through with. Neither did I, frankly. Had to make do with a therapist. Until you. But I’m mostly wondering what you’re going to do about it. I mean, your sister (or the devil) and her minion have seen fit to leave you to your own devices now.”

Sherlock nodded, then asked, “How does one go about reconciling with one’s archenemy?”

“Over tea?” suggested John.

Sherlock smiled.

“Oh, and on a different subject, I’m not going to be a kept woman anymore, Sherlock. I’m going to pay all of my own rent.”

Sherlock frowned. “No sex?”

“Oh, plenty of sex, just paying my own way.”

“Then why don’t you move in here?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Sherlock opened her arms and John settled herself in Sherlock’s lap.

“I’d be lost with you, John.”

“Yeah, me, too love.”

Sherlock kissed her.


End file.
